


Animal Skin

by RichardYves



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Dehumanization, Gore, M/M, Most Dangerous Game AU, Vivisection, disclaimer i've never been to canada, frequent vaguely homoerotic smoking scenes, island of dr moreau AU, no constant au, summary does NOT come from chapter 1, this is not a nice fic, wilson is not a good person, woodie and woodlegs don't appear after chapter 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichardYves/pseuds/RichardYves
Summary: Higgsbury laughs coldly,“Oh, my dear Mr. Carter that was how it started, yes, but you see even man has not been quite so skilled as to warrant the title of the most dangerous prey. Their minds alone are simply not enough! No, they were not the worthy opponent that I sought. I knew that I could do so much better. Yes, man alone was not enough, but man combined with the power, with the strength, with the animalistic ferocity of the untamed beast? Now that, that could be a challenge. Now that could be a chase worthy of the title of the most dangerous game.”
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookingwithcyanide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookingwithcyanide/gifts).



> The Most Dangerous Game belongs to Richard Connell, The Island of Dr Moreau belongs to H.G. Wells, and DST belongs to Klei. 
> 
> Heads up, a lot of this fic is quotes from the source material - at least in the exposition.
> 
> For RoosterWilson

“Can’t see it,” remarks Maxwell, trying yet failing to peer through the heavy Canadian fog which has pressed its thick, spectral hide up against the sides of the ship.

“You never did have good eyes,” quips Woodie with a laugh. Maxwell isn’t offended. They have had this conversation many times before. 

“Ugh! I had thought we would escape the London fog out here.”

“It will be light enough in Alberta,” promises Woodie. “We should make it in a few days. Don’t be too hasty to pass judgement. Canada is a beautiful country.”

“And you a wholly unbiased source.”

Woodie shrugs. “We should have some good hunting at least. Great sport, hunting.”

“The best sport in the word,” agrees Maxwell.

“For the hunter,” amends Woodie. “Not for the moose… nor the bear.”

Maxwell scoffs. “Don’t talk rot, Woodie. You’re a big game hunter, not a philosopher. Leave the existential crisis for Lucy if you must. Animals only understand one thing anyhow – fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death. That’s how they kept them in line in the circus you know.” He takes a drag from his cigar. “Do you think we’ve passed that island yet?”

“I can’t tell in the dark. I hope so.”

“Why?” asks Maxwell. Woodie had not mentioned anything wrong about the island before.

“The place has a reputation – a bad one”

“Cannibals?” Suggests Maxwell.

Woodie laughs. “Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn’t live in such a godforsaken place. Nonetheless, it’s gotten into sailor lore at least. Did you not notice the jumpiness of the crew today?”

Maxwell had not, in fact, paid much attention to the crew at all. However, he had noticed that Captain Woodlegs had seemed a bit… strange.

“Now that you mention it, Woodlegs-“

“Yes, even that crazy old headcase, who’d go up to the devil himself and ask for a light. Those wild eyes held a look I never saw before. I have lived in this country for decades now and that island’s not on half of the maps, you know. Woodlegs’ map had it of course. I asked him about it, but all I could get out of him was: ‘This place has an evil name among seafaring men. Don’t ya feel it? The poison in the air? Don’t they teach you hunters nothing?’ Now, you mustn’t laugh, but I did feel something akin to a sudden chill.”

Maxwell does laugh though. “Pure imagination. A mental trick. We use them all the time in the business. Makes the audience think they feel something- see something. Enhances the show. Hysteria is catching. One superstitious sailor can taint the whole of the ship’s company with his fear.”

Woodie gives Maxwell a sharp look. “No, this wasn’t some stage trick. I think that sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Anyhow, I’m glad we’re getting out of this zone. I think I’m going to turn in now, Maxwell.”

Maxwell nods. “I’m not tired just quite yet. I’m going to finish this cigar up on the afterdeck.”

“Goodnight then, Maxwell.”

“Right. Goodnight, Woodie.”

The fog continues to swirl as Maxwell smokes, watching the condensation form patterns as the ship cuts through. He listens to the sounds of the waves and the dull throb of the ship’s engine as it cuts through the icy Canadian seas- chugging its way steadily toward Ontario where they will go by car to Alberta. He savours the taste of the cigar as the sensuous drowsiness of the night slips over him like a silken smoking jacket. He is just beginning to nod off when an abrupt sound startles him awake.

Off to the right he hears it. He could never mistake such a sound. Again, he hears the noise and again. Somewhere deep within the fog, someone has fired a gun three times.

Maxwell springs to the rail, mystified, but in his hurry slips on the deck – thinly coated in moisture from the dense fog, topples over the rail, and is plunged into the frigid waters of the Labrador Sea.

Everything freezes as he hits the water, his senses overwhelmed by the cold. He plunges straight down before quickly bobbing up to the surface like a demented cork. After the initial shock, he gathers himself. He has been in this sort of situation before, hunting in the cold English winter. He had fallen into a lake then, and had been quick to catch hypothermia which, should he somehow survive this, he will undoubtedly be afflicted with again.

He curses.

The ship has long passed now, its pace a fast one, and he is alone now in the dark sea. He is sure to die in minutes. He feels his energy quickly slipping away. He knows that there are many fishing boats in this region, he had seen them when the fog had been clearer, but with the dense fog it is impossible to tell if there are any about. He calls out anyway until he is too tired to cry out anymore. He feels his limbs, sluggish now, begin to fail in keeping him above water. His hair is frozen to his head. How unfortunate, he thinks, that he should go out in such an undignified manner.

‘They won’t even have a corpse to bring back to Charlie’, he laments. And with that thought, he sinks below the waves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you feel now?”  
> “Not dead.”

The cabin in which he finds himself is small and rather untidy. Though, upon waking, Maxwell does not notice this. He awakens with a start, shooting into an upright position before devolving into a harsh series of coughs. His chest heaves, his throat burns, and he finds himself being pushed back down onto what he realises is a rather comfortable bed. He looks at the man- for the owner of the hand pushing him down is a youngish man with wild, dark hair and brown eyes- sitting at his bedside and sees that the other man’s hand is encircling his wrist.

The thought strikes Maxwell that the man is singularly handsome; there is a sort of original, almost bizarre quality to his face- pointed and speared down the middle with a crooked nose and framed by wild locks. Their gazes meet for just a moment, however, as right overhead a sound like an ironstead clamours along with the low angry growling of some large animal. Maxwell’s gaze darts to the roof before coming back down to rest once more on his rescuer’s face. He realises that the man’s lips are moving.

“- do you feel now?”

Maxwell blinks. He opens his mouth, finding his voice harsh and rasping. “Pardon?”

“How do you feel now?”

“Not dead.”

The man laughs. “Indeed! You were picked out of the sea. Webster thought you dead, but I knew better. You were in luck to get picked up by a ship with a medical man aboard. Though that was near a fortnight ago.”

At the same time, Maxwell’s gaze has slipped down from the man’s face to where his wrist is held in place by his hand. He feels like this is all some bizarre dream, but the man’s hold is somewhat grounding to him- like a tether to the living world as it were. “A fortnight? And where am I now?”

“An island, where I live. So far as I know, it hasn’t got a name.”

Maxwell splutters. “Hasn’t got a name? Whatever do you mean? Have you not named it?”

The man hums. “Seeing as I never leave the island save to fish, there isn’t any need to, is there.”

Maxwell supposes not. Another sound echoes above- the sound of snarling and the voice of a human being together. Maxwell cannot dwell on it as suddenly a cup is shoved into his hand.

“Have some of this.”

The man gives him a dose of some scarlet stuff, iced. It tastes of blood, but he feels stronger for it.

“As I was saying, you were nearly dead. I’ve put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm’s sore?”

Maxwell had not, in fact, noticed as everything was, to some extent, sore.

“Injections. You’ve been unconscious for near a fortnight and insensible for days.”

“Am I eligible for solid food?”

“Thanks to me,” the man replies. He releases Maxwell’s wrist, standing. “Do you feel well enough to stand? It would be beneficial for you to have a proper dinner.”

He holds out an arm which Maxwell takes. The man’s grip is strong, and the arm is muscled beneath a white collared shirt. Maxwell is half-hauled upright and finds himself blinking against a sudden dizziness that leaves his vision hazy. He staggers and holds himself between the man and the bed, regaining his bearings. His legs are terribly weak, but not as atrophied as he would have expected for a fortnight of unconsciousness. He supposes he has the doctor- for he assumes that the man is a doctor- to thank for that. Once he feels as if he isn’t going to teeter over, he releases his hold on the bed. The doctor releases him a moment later, and Maxwell finds himself standing on his own feeling suddenly quite naked and exposed.

The man gives him a once over, as if to check his own handiwork, before clapping his hands together. At the sound, the door to the cabin opens and the most bizarre boy- Maxwell assumes it is a boy given its suit- enters. The boy is short compared to the two men, coming up only to their chests, with black bristly hair covering not only the top of his head but the front and sides as well as the neck. In addition, four limb-like appendages hang from the sides of his head. He is smiling, Maxwell thinks, showing multitudes of jagged teeth. The man pats the boy on the shoulder before turning back to Maxwell.

“This is my son, Webster. I must go back to the main house now, but he will take you there once you are prepared for supper. You’ll find that my clothes will fit you, I think.”

He gestures towards a pile of clothes laid neatly on the bedside table. “I must go now, but I am dying to hear of how you came to be floating in the Labrador,” He pauses as if suddenly remembering something, “and I’m sure you have many questions as well.”

Maxwell does, indeed, have many questions, but before he can say anything, the man excuses himself from the small cabin and leaves, shutting the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell looks up from his food, surprised. “Is there big game on this island?”  
> Higgsbury nods. “The biggest.”

Webster wastes no time after his father leaves before jumping into introductions.

“Hello! My name is Webster Higgsbury, but I prefer to go by Webber.” He holds out a gloved hand which Maxwell shakes.

“Maxwell Carter.”

The boy nods. “Pleased to meet you Maxwell. If you need, I can help you dress.”

Maxwell shakes his head. “I think that I can manage.”

Webber nods again. “I’ll be waiting right outside then. Shout if you need help.”

After the boy leaves, Maxwell turns toward the suit which had been laid out. Putting it on, however, he is surprised to find that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke. He frowns. Just who was his mysterious rescuer- Higgsbury he supposes, from the name of the boy. The name is familiar, but just out of his reach. The suit fits, though the arms are a bit short and the chest a bit large, and he opens the door to the cabin. Webber comes up to take him by the arm.

“It’s a bit of a walk to the main house. Apologies.”

Maxwell doesn’t reply and instead allows himself to be lead, half supported, through what seems to be a rather large complex on the island. The cabin he had been residing in was not the only one of its kind. Indeed, a whole village of the small residences seem to encircle what can only be the main house. The structure is large building; Stone, not wood like the cabins surrounding, with a wall encircling the inner grounds culminating in a tall, spiked iron gate. The stone steps from the gate lead to a massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker. Webber grabs ahold of the knocker, giving it two solid _thwacks._ The sound, booming in its loudness, surprises Maxwell, though he does not react outwardly. After a moment, the door is opened by a small, balding man with a nervous nature. Maxwell finds himself inexplicably thinking of rats. Webber smiles at him.

“Hello Mister Skitts! Would you let father know that our guest has arrived?”

The man, Skitts, nods quickly before hurrying away without so much as a word to either of them. Webber turns back to Maxwell.

“Sorry about him. He’s a bit shy.”

The dining room to which Webber conducts him is, in many ways, remarkable. There is a certain medieval magnificence about it that suggests a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, high ceiling, and vast refractory table at which two score men could sit down to eat. About the hall are the mounted heads of many animals – lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger and more perfect specimens than Maxwell had ever seen. At the head of this great table, his host sits alone with Skitts standing at his left shoulder. A plentiful variety of food populates the table itself. 

“Welcome! Come, sit and eat.”

Webber ushers Maxwell to the seat at the man’s left before himself taking the seat across from him- at the man’s right side.

“Well,” starts the man after they’ve been served by Skitts, “I suppose that names are as good a start as any. Doctor Wilson P. Higgsbury at your service.”

Maxwell nods. The name is still familiar, but just out of reach. “My name is Maxwell Carter.”

“Carter! The magician?”

Maxwell nods again.

Higgsbury claps his hands together. “It is a very great pleasure and honour to welcome Mister Maxwell Carter, renowned animal behaviouralist, famed magician, and celebrated hunter, to my home. I’ve read your books about taming the lions and elephants in the circus and hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see, and Webster here was quite fond of your shows back in jolly good England.” The phrase ‘jolly good England’ is said in a tone which communicates a certain bitterness.

Higgsbury elaborates, “Left it all ten years ago. How jolly it all used to be! But I made a young ass of myself,- played myself out before I even hit middle-age.” He shakes his head. “But that’s in the past.” He looks at Maxwell sharply, and he thinks that there may be some suspicion in his gaze. “And how did such a well-renown man such as yourself find himself in the Labrador Sea.”

Maxwell blushes in embarrassment and briefly recounts his story. After, they eat in silence for a stretch before Maxwell attempts at conversation.

“You have some wonderful heads here. That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw.”

“Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster.”

Maxwell cuts a piece of particularly well-cooked filet mignon. “Did he charge you?”

“Hurled me against a tree. Fractured my skull. But I got the brute.”

“I’ve always thought,” agrees Maxwell, “that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game.”

For a moment, Higgsbury does not reply. He smirks as if he knows something that Maxwell does not.

“No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game.” He sips his wine. “Here on my island,” he says slowly, “I hunt more dangerous game.”

Maxwell looks up from his food, surprised. “Is there big game on this island?”

Higgsbury nods. “The biggest.”

“Really?”

“Oh, it isn’t here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island.”

“What have you imported, doctor?”

“Something truly thrilling. Something truly dangerous. I live for danger, Mr. Carter.”

Standing then, Higgsbury rises from the table. “Join me for a smoke, Mr. Carter?”

Nodding, Maxwell too stands, Webber quickly darting around the table to support him. “I’m afraid that all of my cigars are back on the ship.”

Higgsbury laughs. “Worry not, Mr. Carter. I have a spare pipe.”

Maxwell finds himself led to an elegant balcony overlooking the grounds. From there, he can see over the walls to the cabins inside which little lights flicker- likely from fireplaces or candles. Despite the light, however, he can still see the stars above. The sky is thick with them; they shine innumerably above. There are many more than can be seen in London, and the constellations are unfamiliar. He feels untethered.

He tears his gaze from the unfamiliar stars and instead watches the grounds. As he looks, he is startled to see a shape slinking in the grasses below. As it steps into the light of one of the sconces below, he recognises the beast- a puma. He blinks but is not too surprised. Higgsbury had said that he stocked the island, after all.

Higgsbury joins him a moment later, holding two pipes. He offers one to Maxwell who takes it gratefully. The food has done him a load of good, but a proper smoke will do wonders for his nerves. Higgsbury lights the pipes and reclines against the balcony railing. The tobacco is perfumed – likely medicinal – and smells of incense and something vaguely floral. It calms him considerably. He barely notices when Webber excuses himself.

They stand, shoulder to shoulder, for quite some time. Higgsbury asks of London, speaking of it in a tone of half-pained reminiscence; asking all kinds of questions about changes that had taken place, speaking like a man who had loved his life there, and had been suddenly and irrevocably cut off from it. Maxwell answers his questions and asks some of his own; what sort of animals Higgsbury has imported – all kinds, how long he’s been on the island – a few years, what sort of local vegetation grows there – lots of conifers and fungi.

Towards midnight, the talk of London peters out and they stand, quiet, leaning over the grounds and staring dreamily over the silent, starlit island, each pursuing their own thoughts before Maxwell once again breaks the silence.

“If I may say it. You have saved my life.”

Higgsbury shakes his head. “Chance. Just chance.”

“I prefer to make my thanks to the accessible agent.”

“Thank no one. You had the need, and I had the knowledge; and I injected and fed you as much as I might have collected a specimen. I was bored and wanted something to do. If I’d been jaded that day, or hadn’t liked your face quite so much, well – it’s a curious question where you would have been now!”

Maxwell frowns, turning what was just said over in his mind. A troubling revelation, but under it a tone of something more… affectionate? “At any rate-“

“It’s a chance, I tell you,” Higgsbury interrupts, “as everything is in a man’s life. Only the asses won't see it! Why am I here now, an outcast from civilisation, instead of being a happy man enjoying all the pleasures of London? Simply because eleven years ago—I lost my head for ten minutes on a foggy night-“ He cuts himself off.

Maxwell attempts to continue the conversation. “Yes?”

“That’s all.”

They lapse into an awkward silence again, each smoking their pipes. Higgsbury laughs. “There’s something in this starlight that loosens one’s tongue. I’m an ass, and yet somehow I would like to tell you.”

Maxwell inches closer, interested. “Whatever you tell me, you may rely upon my keeping to myself- if that’s it.” Higgsbury takes a breath, as if to gather himself, but then shakes his head, doubtfully.

“Don’t.” Maxwell says, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. He finds that it’s equally muscled as his arm- the contrast between it and Maxwell’s own spindly appendage blatantly apparent before his eyes. “It is all the same to me. After all, it is better to keep your secret. There’s nothing gained but a little relief if I respect your confidence. If I don’t – well?”

HIggsbury nods, shifting under Maxwell’s hand. Maxwell feels awkward, the brief touch having lasted too long, and drops his hand back down to his side. A hound bays somewhere on the island and is answered by a clamouring call of animals before a shout rings out and all falls silent again.

“I’m thinking of turning in, then,” Higgsbury says, “if you’ve had enough of this.”

Maxwell finds that he hasn’t. He’s quite enjoyed the time spent. Still, the cold Canadian wind is beginning to cut through the heat coming from the blazing fire crackling in the room connected to the balcony, and he knows that he should be turning in given his still delicate constitution. He nods, handing the pipe back to the other man.

“Now that you’re better. Webster may show you to a room in the main house. I am afraid that I had to keep you sequestered while you were insensible. You had a tendency to lash out.”

As if summoned, Webber slips back into the room and takes Maxwell by the arm again.

“Goodnight Mister Carter.”

“Goodnight Doctor Higgsbury.”

The bedroom to which Maxwell is lead is a huge, beam-ceilinged room with a canopied bed big enough for six men. The bed looks immensely comfortable, and Maxwell finds himself suddenly exhausted- the walk to the main house and the conversation taking its toll on him. Webber helps him get undressed- too tired to refuse the help- and get into the bed before leaving with a quiet “Goodnight Mr. Carter.” Maxwell smiles as the boy leaves.

Despite his own exhaustion and the comfortable mattress, however, he is plagued by very unpleasant dreams. In it, he sees waning moon- its light casting a ghostly white spear through his chest. Throughout the night, he hears the barking of stagehounds and the cries of wild animals. His dreams are tumultuous – of guns, howling mobs, and the churning roar of waves around his ears. He is sucked down, down into the noisy, baying waters until he is suffocated beneath the waves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Higgsbury smiles warmly.  
> “I’d like that very much, Mr. Carter”

Maxwell awakens the next morning to the sound of screaming. The scream is a horrific thing, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror. He does not recognise the animal that made the sound, but he bolts upright as suddenly the name which had been evading him for so long comes crashing over his every sense.

_Higgsbury._

The Higgsbury Horrors! The phrases drifts, loose in his mind before landing with a splash onto the page of a little buff-coloured pamphlet, to read which made one shiver and creep. Higgsbury – a prominent and masterful physiologist, well-known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and his brutal directness in discussion, well-published in most every subject there was: biology, anatomy, chemistry, herbology, physics – even astronomy, and yet all-but-forgotten after mysteriously disappearing years ago. He wants to hit himself for forgetting- for how could he forget the brutal exposé which had been published when he himself was just beginning to publish in the scientific community.

The whole thing had been a sordid affair: a journalist had obtained access to his laboratory in the capacity of laboratory-assistant, with the deliberate intention of making sensational exposures; and by the help of a shocking accident (if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet became notorious. On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed and otherwise mutilated, escaped from Higgsbury’s house.

Maxwell had thought it all very silly at the time. An overreaction blown out of proportion by yellow journalism, an overly moral public, and a misunderstanding of all things scientific. However, he understands now why Higgsbury is here on the island. He had been howled out of the country. Maxwell shakes his head. It had been truly shameful the way that the scientific community had deserted the man- were quick to save their own hides and dismiss him as a perverted outlier with a proclivity for wanton cruelty as if they didn’t also have their own metaphorical (and undoubtedly sometimes physical) flayed dogs hiding within their own laboratories.

His thoughts are interrupted when finally, the screams fall silent and a quiet knocking can be heard at his door. He makes his way there and opens it, half expecting Webber, but instead finding himself looking at the balding head of Mr. Skitts. The man squeaks as the door opens and takes a few steps backwards from the entrance before saying the first words that Maxwell had ever heard from him,

“Breakfast in an hour, sir!” He bows then, quickly, before scurrying away. As he looks after the man, he notices that Skitts has an odd gait about him.

Maxwell closes the door again and makes his way to the adjoining bathroom where he cleans himself and dresses for the day in yet another of Higgsbury’s suits.

It’s odd, making his way to the dining room without Webber at his arm. He is mostly walking on this own now, though he does have to stop a few times to lean against the wall, catching his breath. The dining room is even more striking in the morning light. The sun races in through the windows and bounces off the table, sending soft rays in every direction. Once again, Higgsbury sits at the head of the food-laden table with Skitts at this shoulder. However, Maxwell quickly notices that Webber is absent.

As he sits, he voices this. “Where is young Webber?”

Higgsbury sighs, a genuinely worried look shadowing his features. “He was ill today. He’s likely in bed now. I’m sure you noticed but he isn’t exactly a normal boy.”

Maxwell nods and takes a bit from the food set in front of him – bacon and eggs. The other man seems visibly upset, so he doesn’t prod further. They make idle chatter for a while, and Maxwell learns that the next boat to the island won’t be arriving until after the winter is over- the icy seas too dangerous now for ships.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Carter?”

“Earl Grey if you have any- black tea is fine if you don’t.”

Higgsbury waves a hand in acknowledgement, and Mr. Skitts hurries off, returning a few minutes later with a cup of Earl Grey on a saucer with sugar cubes. Maxwell adds two to the tea and stirs idly before speaking casually, as if discussing the weather,

“Odd noises happening this morning, Doctor Higgsbury.”

The man tenses instantly. Maxwell presses on.

“You know, I think it’s rather good that you’re continuing your studies, you know. Your loss was a blow to the scientific community. We weren’t all as foolish as those yellow-bellied journalists so scared of progress- of innovation.”

Higgsbury meets Maxwell’s eyes suspiciously. “What are you getting at.”

Maxwell feigns innocence. “Well, it’s all very obvious isn’t it? Animal screams on the island of a notorious vivisector. If that’s what you did not want to tell me last night, you oughtn’t have been worried. You know that I never condemned your work. We’re quite similar you and I,” he presses on, “the public didn’t take to kindly to the way I treated my animals in the circus either.”

The mood is still tense, but Maxwell can feel some of the tension slipping out of the other man’s posture. “Thank you for… your understanding Mr Carter. I’m sorry to make a mystery, but you’ll remember you’re uninvited. I didn’t,” he pauses, “I _don’t_ know you.”

Maxwell takes a bite of his eggs before replying. “Decidedly. I should be a fool to take offence at any want of confidence, especially after being so scorned in the past. Yes, you don’t know me,” Something twists in his gut and he finds himself speaking before he can truly think over his words, “but perhaps you could? I’ll be here a while, after all.”

Something unknown flashes in Higgsbury’s eyes. It’s a terrible unknown, frightening in its intensity, and Maxwell is quite certain he has never seen an emotion quite like it before, but it’s gone before he can even fully process it, and he is left wondering if it were ever truly there.

Higgsbury smiles warmly.

“I’d like that very much, Mr. Carter”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Truthfully, hunting was beginning to bore me! But the yule hunt, Mr Carter.” Again, the unknown look has returned. “I cannot wait for you to experience it.”

Higgsbury speaks again as he finishes the last of his food.

“I am glad to see you in stronger health. However, I think you will agree on the beneficial nature of some physical therapy, Mr Carter. You were bedridden for quite some time.”

Maxwell nods, understanding. He can feel the lingering weaknesses in his muscles and bones.

“Is there such a therapist on the island?”

“I am he.”

He had rather suspected that. The two finish their meal, and Maxwell finds himself once again being led out of the main house, this time supported by Higgsbury himself. The man is not much shorter than him, a handful of centimetres at most, and it is much more comfortable than when Webber had done so. Higgsbury is stronger, also- his rugged physique from his hunts evident even under his suit. As they pass through the heavy iron gate and onto the island proper, Maxwell gets his first real look at the other residents of the island.

“Are they native?”

Higgsbury shakes his head. “No, the island was abandoned when I first arrived. The sailors call the place Ship Trap, you know. Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Much like you, actually.”

Maxwell nods. “And do they not return home?”

Another odd look flashes behind Higgsbury’s eyes. “You will find that there are reasons that they cannot.”

Uncomfortable silence falls until they are interrupted by the approach of a woman. She is tall- taller than Higgsbury himself- and is frighteningly muscled. Her red hair is pulled back into two braids and she holds herself with a certain poise not much seen outside of the performing arts. As she reaches the pair, she dips into a shallow bow, and Maxwell finds himself wondering at the action.

“Good morn Doctor Higgsbury.”

“Good morn Wigfrid.”

“We’ve finished unpacking the latest shipment. Large one that was, sir.”

“The last one of the season.”

“Aye, I understand. Has to last all winter.”

Maxwell interjects, “Supplies?”

The woman, Wigfrid, nods her head enthusiastically. “Aye. And game. For Doctor Higgsbury. Not for us.”

“They’re vegetarian,” the doctor elabourates. He turns his attention back to Wigfrid. “Well done. You all can take a rest now. I won’t be needing you for a time. You know when to begin preparations for the Yule’s feast.” Wigfrid nods, bows again, and hurries off. As she goes, Maxwell notes that she too like Skitts has something slightly off about her gait. It is not as apparent as with Skitts, but he catches it all the same.

“Yule feast?”

Higgsbury nods. “Indeed. We have one every year here. The whole of the island has a grand feast, and the night ends with a hunt.”

This catches Maxwell’s full attention. “A hunt you say?”

“Yes! It is truly a magnificent thing. I look forward to it each year. The yule hunt is special, you see. God makes some people poets. Some he makes kings, some beggars. Me he made a hunter, and it is the yule hunt in which I am able to find true challenge. I have hunted every kind of animal in every land. Truthfully, hunting was beginning to bore me! But the yule hunt, Mr Carter.” Again, the unknown look has returned. “I cannot wait for you to experience it.”

The building at which they stop is, Maxwell realises, the same cabin in which he had first come to wake up in. The cabin looks smaller now, and as they enter, he sees that it is actually equipped with a variety of medical tools which hang upon the walls and are neatly organised in a cabinet by the door. Higgsbury leads him to the bed, and he sits upon it as the other man retrieves a few things before returning.

“How do you feel?”

Maxwell thinks for a moment. “Better, certainly. A bit weak, still.”

“Any lingering cough?”

Come to think of it, he had not, in fact, coughed since that first day. “No.”

Higgsbury jots down a note on a paper, smiling slightly. “Good. Good. I had hoped that my new mixture would prevent any respiratory illness.”

Higgsbury, Maxwell notes, is one of those saturnine people who smile with the corners of the mouth down. The man sits at the bedside and takes Maxwell’s wrist in his hand, measuring his heartrate.

“A bit elevated. I hope the walk did not strain you too greatly?”

Maxwell’s throat feels suddenly stuck. “No.”

“Hm.”

Another note is made. They pass the next few hours in a similar manner, with Higgsbury testing something or another- sometimes looking at reflexes and sometimes moving Maxwell this way and that, questioning him about it, and marking something on the paper with him. Finally, Higgsbury seems to be satisfied with the check-up and stands again before helping Maxwell up from the bed.

“You are doing better than I had expected, I must say.”

Maxwell laughs nervously. “My assistant always said that what I had a mercurial sort of luck. The extraordinary recovery must simply be the counterbalance to the unfortunate nature of the accident.”

“Indeed. We should head back to the main house. I imagine that Webber will be awake by now and wondering where we’ve gone.”

The walk back to the main house is quiet. As they pass through the village, Maxwell sees a variety of people bustling about their day-to-day lives. He wonders again why they have stayed on the island. The inhabitants, for their part, pay no mind to the two of them.

Upon reaching the house again, they are taken by Skitts to the dining room where, as Higgsbury predicted, Webber is awake and waiting for them at the table. The boy seems to be eating a bowl of soup. As they enter, he waves weakly.

“Hullo da. Hullo Mister Carter.”

They take their seats and are also served bowls of soup by Skitts, though theirs also have sandwiches accompanying them.

“How are you feeling Webster?” Higgsbury lays a hand over the boy’s forehead and takes the boys wrist in his other hand. Webber wriggles under the touch.

“Da! Your hands are too chilled!”

Higgsbury chuckles. “A bit better then?”

Webber nods. Higgsbury’s eyes narrow mischievously. “Better enough to… return to your studies today?”

“No! No, da! I am gravely ill!”

Maxwell watches the interaction, expression neutral. He isn’t quite sure of what to make of the relationship between the father and son. He had been certain, based on what he had known – the screams, the way Webber looked, the vivisection, the timing of it all – that Webber was some sort of experiment of the man’s. Yet looking at them now, he can see nothing but genuine filial love in Higgsbury’s gaze. It’s all very perplexing. 

As he draws himself from his musing, it seems that some sort of accord has been reached on the topic of studies, and that he has been asked a question. At least, he assumes that he has been asked a question, as both of them seem to be looking at him as if expecting some sort of response. He coughs.

“Sorry, repeat that?”

“Would you like to sit in on Webster’s studies today? I teach him here, you see, and there really isn’t much to do on the island anyhow – especially in winter. Your wide expertise may provide an excellent second perspective.”

He preens at the compliment. “I would love to.”

Webber claps his hands excitedly, and the four of them- Maxwell, Webber, Higgsburry, and Skitts- make their way to a new room within the main house: a large library.

The library is, like the rest of the house, in a medieval styling with great stone walls covered by shelves upon shelves of books. Wooden beams criss-cross the arched ceiling which towers over them, and windows perched high up on the walls let the winter sunlight stream into the room. Maxwell finds himself very impressed.

The lesson itself is equally fascinating. It has no set topic, and instead meanders around, tracing the path of Higgsbury’s thoughts to touch upon everything from the history of Britain, to the parts of the peach blossom, to the stars within Orion’s belt. All throughout, Webber writes ferociously within a little leatherbound notebook, occasionally asking questions here or there.

A couple times, as promised, Higgsbury stops in his ramble to ask Maxwell’s opinion on something or another. Sometimes he has an answer, sometimes he doesn’t, and he finds himself excited for the questions which he can answer as with them comes a small smile from Higgsbury. He also finds himself equally dreading the questions which he does not know as with _them_ comes a look of disappointment in Higgsbury’s eyes that cannot fully be hidden away. Maxwell does not quite understand why the smiles and looks affect him so.

All too soon, the lesson draws to a close as the sun begins to set on the horizon, and the library is plunged into darkness. Skitts gets up then, and lights a couple lanterns, handing one to Higgsbury. Higgsbury stands and stretches, accepting it gratefully.

“Let us go to dinner then.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He accentuates each statement with another shove to Maxwell’s shoulders. “You! Owe! Me! Everything!” Maxwell can smell the smoke on his breath – floral and spicy.

After dinner, they once again retire to the balcony to smoke and stand silently for quite some time listening to the assorted noises of the animals and other island inhabitants. There are no foreign stars twinkling tonight as once again a thick fog has fallen over the region. Maxwell can hardly see his companion, standing near an arms-length from himself. The other man looks contemplative, his expression once again saturnine. Smoke curls from the end of his pipe briefly before disappearing into the mist.

Maxwell thinks on the unusual circumstances he has found himself in. He wonders if Woodie has reached land by now – wonders if he would send word to Charlie immediately. Was he presumed dead? Was a search party called? He doubts it. The water was frigid, and the lumberjack would have known that he wouldn’t have lasted long; no, being presumed dead was much more plausible. He wonders if Charlie would mourn him. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, with her having found his treatment of animals repugnant – both the circus animals and his game hunting.

He had never hidden any of that business from her, certainly, but he had always endeavoured to keep his skeletons in separate closets as it were. Nevertheless, she had found his publications, and read them, and found them to be not to her more delicate tastes. That of course, he had no issue with. No, the issue lay with her decision to question him on it and, in addition, attempt to change a behaviour that he himself saw no issue with. They were just animals, after all. They had no feelings, not really. Only fear of pain and fear of death. He tried explaining this to Charlie of course, and it led to a rather large dispute. She always had a nasty habit of anthropomorphising lesser creatures.

As the evening deepens, his companion shifts beside him. Maxwell breaks the silence.

“When I had connected your name to the Higgsbury Horrors, I must say that I had assumed several things. Your son, Webster-”

Higgsbury looks at him sharply, the storminess in his eyes concentrated now into a piercing gaze. He tenses and Maxwell continues quickly onward.

“You and he are. Quite close. I can tell. And yet the screams. Were you attempting to improve him? You needn’t answer of course. I was simply-”

This time, he does not have a chance to continue as there is a sudden and crushing pressure on his windpipe. He becomes urgently aware that the other man has cast aside his pipe and is choking him. He quickly recovers his wits and attempts to push Higgsbury away from himself, but he is roughly pushed back again, head smacking against the stone balcony railing with a _crack_ , sending stars flooding into his vision. Higgsbury snarls, leaning up into his face.

“You know nothing. I owe you nothing. You don’t get to ask that. You have no right!”

He accentuates each statement with another shove to Maxwell’s shoulders.

“You! Owe! Me! Everything!”

Maxwell can smell the smoke on his breath – floral and spicy.

“I saved his life! He was dying and I saved him. Did I improve him – what a question – of _course_ I did. Everything I do to him is for his benefit! I-“

He stops.

“I apologise. Mr. Carter. That wasn’t very sporting of me. Let me get you something for your head.”

Maxwell is left standing there then, ears ringing, alone on the balcony. He is frozen, shocked. He had not expected such a reaction from the other man. _Interesting._ He reaches behind his head to feel wetness on his hand. He’s bleeding. Higgsbury returns then with a wet rag, some cloth, and a small measure containing a dark liquid.

“Come in then. Let me see it in the firelight. Headwounds tend to bleed rather deceivingly, but nevertheless it would be remiss of me not to check to see if you require stitches.”

Maxwell stays rooted to the spot.

“Come now. I won’t go at you again. Don’t stand there bleeding.”

He shakily re-enters the room where Higgsbury leads him to sit on a footstool by the fire. Holding the wet rag, he dabs at the blood and peers at the wound itself.

“Shouldn’t need stitches.”

Despite the violence of his earlier actions, his touch is gentle, and Maxwell is left rather confused by it all. Higgsbury shoves the cloth into his hands.

“Hold this to the wound.”

Mechanically, Maxwell obeys. They sit in awkward silence until the bleeding stops. Higgsbury rises and lights a lantern before putting out the fire in the hearth.

“Let me take you back to your room.”

The walk is long – longer than Maxwell remembered it being – and the cries of the animals on the island are louder than any nights previous. To his embarrassment, he is helped into bed and bedclothes by Higgsbury himself. Still, the bed is good and the pyjamas the softest silk. The drink is pressed into his hands.

“Take this, Mr. Carter. It will help you sleep.”

After Higgsbury’s departure, Maxwell lies awake, eyes wide open. Once, he thinks he hears stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. The gait is regular. Perhaps the child. He tosses and turns before eventually leaving the bed. Going to the window, he looks out to see that the fog has cleared. Foreign stars and the fragment of a sallow moon cast dim light over the island. A flash of green can be seen below, and he looks to see hunting hounds staring back at him – green eyes like ships beacons in the night. He shudders. A great tiredness begins to creep upon him. The drink, he assumes. As he returns to bed and falls into a deep sleep, he hears the faint report of a pistol.


End file.
